He rested a hand over one of the wafers and the image hidden in its depths flickered briefly. His power was largely spent, but his latent abilities were still strong enough to do this.
Brand despised feeling so weakened. It left him feeling impotent and useless. He took several deep, calming breaths and coaxed himself gently through it. His breathing slowed imperceptibly until he could clearly hear the dual rhythms of his hearts. The one, strong and awake, churning the noble blood of his Chapter around his body, the other sluggish and dormant. He forced all thoughts from his mind, allowing himself to present a blank canvas to the stroke of the Emperor’s will. Let the Father of Mankind reach across the empyrean, past the lurking evils and horrors and shape the future.
Once he was in a suitable state of deep meditation, he began to exert his psychic ability. Compared to the empyrean-piercing brightness of the Emperor, his own light was dull and minuscule in comparison. But it was the belief of the Prognosticators that the Emperor would be drawn to a beacon of his psychic offspring, no matter how inconsequential it may seem. Across the infinite wastes of space, every pinprick of psychic light shone.
He felt, rather than saw, the image appear on the wafer and allowed himself to become distracted by it. The Emperor, inverted. He looked at it and he felt the acid taste of bile in his mouth. It was the second time in a short period that he had drawn that card.
Every school of thought within the Prognosticatum took the signs from the Emperor in slightly different ways, even those who read the tarot. The gift was, after all, unique to each psyker and whilst they could be schooled in how to handle the powers of the warp, invariably that power would manifest in a very different way. Prognosticator Bast, for example, had an affinity with the elements that was unsurpassed. Vashiro and, if rumour were to be believed, young Bhehan of Eighth Company, both possessed remarkable foresight.
His own skills, even dampened as they were right now, were more than adequate. The death of Taemar was a testament to that. But his ability to see the unfolding of the future had always been limited.
Passing a hand over the wafer, the image blurred and vanished. Once again, Brand let himself reach out to feel the engulfing warmth of the Emperor’s light. He laid his hand over the surface of the first card and, allowing the power of the empyrean to flow through him and expel through the tips of his fingers, watched intently as the image began to form.
The storm was closing in now. Rain was falling harder, and the red clay-like mud clung and stuck to the bright armour of the Silver Skulls warriors like congealing gore. It dribbled slowly down their leg guards and pauldrons in sticky rivulets that were almost the same colour as the blood that had broken up the uniformity of their chosen livery.
Following the initial attack on the compound, the majority of the Red Corsairs holding force had been beaten down or were engaged in a fighting retreat that was still raging within the grounds of the refinery. Everywhere the eye fell, mangled, dismembered bodies of cultists littered the ground, sinking slowly into the quagmire, trodden further in by the passage of the Silver Skulls.
Inteus had attended Arrun at the captain’s request, his own power armour blood-streaked and pitted. His force sword was worn in a scabbard across his back and his face was almost serenely calm. He had chosen to take the field without a helmet and the crystalline frame of his psychic hood arched from his gorget, the fine wires sinking into his skull in what looked like the most uncomfortable way. The two spoke privately for a few moments in low voices.
‘I already told you, Captain Arrun,’ Inteus said, his expression not changing at all. ‘When we talked earlier, I told you the answer to this question. You must not fight this battle with thoughts of vengeance. Do your duty. That is all that is required of you.’
Arrun shook his head. ‘It is not an answer, Prognosticator. I need something more solid before I commit my forces further.’ He took a step closer to Inteus, his greater height advantage meaning that the psyker had to look up at him. Arrun’s voice lowered to a hiss.
‘I cannot join this fight without thinking of the brothers I have already lost this day. Does this mean I should call a retreat? Because I cannot do that, Inteus, whether it is the Emperor’s will or not. I have embarked on a course of action that I cannot easily change. The tide, once in motion, cannot be turned. We must see this battle through to its outcome. And its outcome must be the eradication of the Red Corsairs in the Gildar Rift.’
‘Your decision seems made, captain.’ The sandy-haired psyker’s tone was mild.
‘I still need you to give me an answer.’
‘If it were that easy, then I would provide you with that which you seek.’ Inteus waved a hand expansively. ‘The portents, the vision I had, did not relate to the entire Chapter.’ Inteus’s young face became serious and he unsheathed his power sword, holding it briefly in front of him and allowing a crackle of energy to run down its length. He considered it carefully, keeping his eyes from Arrun. ‘They were specifically regarding you.’
‘I need your blessing on this matter, Prognosticator.’ Arrun’s tattooed face was dark with anger. ‘Do I proceed or do I not? You know as well as I that without your confirmation, we cannot, in all good conscience, make our move. And every minute you deliberate is another minute Lugft Huron gets further away from us.’
‘I have noticed that you never refer to him as Huron Blackheart,’ observed Inteus, curiosity in his voice. ‘Why is that, captain?’
‘Do not try to stall for time. An answer, Prognosticator. Now.’
A pregnant pause was finally punctuated by a sharp nod from Inteus. ‘Proceed,’ he said and his tone was bland, giving away nothing. ‘Do not proceed. Either way, the Silver Skulls will prevail. On this occasion, brother-captain, the choice needs to be yours.’
Inteus’s cryptic reply infuriated the captain and their wills locked in a clash of baleful stares. Despite his training, Inteus looked away from the steel he saw in his superior’s soul. He knew what Arrun’s choice would be. He did not know the captain as well as he knew Daviks, but in the short time he had been in Arrun’s sphere of influence, he had formed what was showing itself to be a remarkably accurate opinion.
‘Then by your grace, Prognosticator, we will proceed,’ Arrun said, ramming his helm back on his head until his voice was once again expressionless and distorted by the vox-grille. ‘We clear this place.’
Inteus bowed his head graciously and sheathing his power sword again fell back to rejoin his own squad.
They pressed forwards through the compound, awash now with bodies and severed limbs, grisly remains of the enemy force. Taking up position at the front of the advancing line, Arrun’s lightning claws flickered with blue energy.
With piercing shrieks of suicidal frenzy, a pack of cultists swarmed around a corner and broke against the line of silver. They were armed seemingly with whatever they had been able to pick up; in this instance, mostly tools, shovels and lengths of pipe and the speed with which they were dispatched to the depths of hell was almost pathetic. More than one of the traitors died on the end of Arrun’s claws as he pierced and shredded them with the crackling, energised blades. The massive forms of the Adeptus Astartes made the cultists seem like ragged toys and even more so when their broken bodies were hanging limply from an extended claw, blood pooling on the ground below.
With an indifferent flick of his hand, Arrun rid himself of his prey. The dying cultist slithered from the blades and gurgled loudly and messily into oblivion. Arrun stepped forward, crushing the pitiful traitor’s skull beneath his boot. Grey matter mingled with the rain and blood and the captain didn’t even spare his victim so much as a glance before he pushed forwards.
Most of his company had fought at his side during one incursion or another, but it never failed to engender great pride in them to see their venerated captain carving through the enemy as though reaping their souls for the Imperium. He was inspirational and unshakeable. There was little glory in this slaughter however,
and the Silver Skulls advanced through the refinery like the relentless machine that they were, grinding the traitors beneath their tread and leaving nothing but the dead behind them.
Behind the front line, the two Dreadnoughts followed, stooping to pick up fleeing cultists to crush in their mighty grip or simply riddling them with controlled bursts of fire from their assault cannons. Although both were heavily armed, their orders to minimise damage to the refinery stood. Just the sight of the massive machines in their ornately engraved armour was enough to stop some of the slaves in their tracks, sending them screaming like the cowards they were. Onwards the Dreadnoughts trod, the mud beneath their feet marking their passage in craters. As the fleeing cultists ran, the rest of the company discharged careful bursts of bolter fire and put a swift end to their escape.
Not a word was shared between them. Whilst they could issue orders in the tongue of the xiz, many of the Silver Skulls found the barbaric language almost revolting. Silence was preferable in this instance. As such, vox chatter was reduced to a minimum, the commanders giving messages by hand signals. It mattered little. The well-oiled cogs of Fourth Company spun freely and easily as they worked in perfect harmony with one another. Those warriors from Daviks’s company who had joined with them slotted perfectly into their strategy.
Well out of the main compound now, they were being slowly forced to narrow their advancing line as the buildings grew more densely plentiful. What had been an expansive plaza was funnelling the Silver Skulls into a labyrinth of
corridors and byways. All around them and overhead a maze of pipework and tubing groaned, throbbed and leaked clouds of thick vapour. They could make their way through, but the potential likelihood for ambush amidst the sprawling guts of the facility grew with each passing moment.
Arrun turned and gestured to the bike squad who were slowly riding through the compound behind them. They made no effort whatsoever to avoid the dead and dying, merely rode over bodies where they lay.
‘Scout ahead,’ he ordered the leader when he was within speaking distance. The sergeant nodded and with a roar of their engines, the squad of bikes pulled ahead of the rest of the Silver Skulls. Arrun moved back amongst the company, searching for Correlan. The Techmarine was carrying out emergency field repairs on the armour of his battle-brothers, cursing freely all the while. It was a vulgar trait, most likely a lingering byproduct of his childhood on the streets of Varsavia’s one main city.
‘Techmarine. Fall back immediately and lend your assistance to Captain Daviks. He is attempting to link in with the refinery cogitators. Your assistance will be essential in ensuring he achieves this task.’
‘But...’ Correlan indicated the damaged armour of the warrior he was working on. Arrun simply glowered at him.
‘I am sick and tired of you questioning my every order, Correlan. Do as I say. Report to Daviks now.’
Without another word, not even an acknowledgement of the order, the Techmarine made his way back across the compound. Within minutes, the network had resumed its steady exchange of voices. The majority of the Silver Skulls themselves remained remarkably quiet however, as tended to be their way during battle.
The enemy numbers continued to dwindle as they made their way through the claustrophobic pipes of the Primus-Phi facility. The Dreadnoughts, far too large to manoeuvre through the superstructure without causing untold damage, remained at the edges of the compound. The fighting there continued to be reasonably intense. More cultists and a small number of Red Corsairs had taken up positions in and around the disabled turrets.
A steady rain of dismembered bodies fell from the walls as the assault squads pushed into the pockets of resistance, and the arrival of the two venerable brothers further added to the mayhem. One bunker disintegrated under a sustained burst from Brother Pallaton, spilling ragged bodies to the ground below. Squad Onyx advanced over the rubble, slaughtering the survivors with cool, dispassionate strokes of their chainblades.
‘Arrun, this is Daviks.’ The taciturn Ninth Company captain’s voice across the vox-channel sounded irritable, which given his normally phlegmatic nature meant he was expressing unusually high levels of anger.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Correlan has got us access into the system and I suggest that you deviate from your present course. You should take your men immediately to the coordinates I’m transmitting you.’
Runes and digits flickered across Arrun’s visor feed and the compass swung to indicate the direction he should take. The captain raised a hand and pointed in that direction, expertly guiding the Silver Skulls. Whatever it was that Daviks had found sounded important enough for him to investigate without immediate question.
‘Course altered. Would you care to elaborate, brother?’
‘I’ve compared the plans I acquired before we landed to those held internally here in the refinery. Regretfully, my strategy was based on plans that are some five years out of date. There has been a vital addition to the transport infrastructure on Gild–’
‘Spare me the infernal details and get to the point, Daviks. What is it that I am supposed to be looking for?’ Arrun’s impatience was biting.
‘They have installed a maglev system, Arrun. I would lay down any price that the Red Corsairs are planning to take the transport out of the refinery – if they haven’t already done so.’
‘How far?’
‘No more than a couple of kilometres from your current position. The maglev serves the refinery and several of the hab-zones on the planet, well clear of the shuttle terminal. It carries personnel and cargo – and probably also promethium tankers to supply their generators. I have taken the liberty of assessing the other plans and details held here. There are several areas that have recently been blasted for fresh mineheads. There is no reason at all why the Red Corsairs may not have planned to set down their transports there.’
‘Then we must make all haste.’ Unconsciously, Arrun had picked up the pace, their steady trudge through the mud turning into a light jog. But even that plan was thwarted immediately with Daviks’s next words.
‘The system runs mostly underground, through the mountains.’ Arrun clicked his tongue in exasperation.
‘For some reason, brother, that news does not surprise me. Not one bit. Very well. Continue to assess the situation.’ His mind worked rapidly as he considered the various options open to him and his men. He glanced around and considered his resources before he finally addressed the entire unit.
‘Brothers of Fourth and Ninth Companies, heed my words. Thunderhawk pilots, Captain Daviks and Techmarine Correlan will shortly be sending you coordinates of potential engagement points. All mounted squads, head to the maglev terminal as fast as you can. All Silver Skulls – finish your skirmishes as quickly as you can then disengage and converge on my position. We need to stop them before they leave and their headstart is already considerable.’
A distant whine of engines, some from the attack bikes on the ground, the others from the Thunderhawks was his response. Seconds later, both of the gunships streaked overhead, heading for the coordinates that had been transmitted. The riders gunned the throttles of their bikes and tore from their scouting path towards the south-eastern corner of the compound.
As the Space Marines ran towards their new destination, Arrun worked on controlling his absolute fury. It irked him beyond words that at every turn in this conflict, the Tyrant of Badab had outmanoeuvred him. There was never going to be any danger of Arrun respecting another brilliant strategic mind, particular not when it belonged to an animal of Chaos – but despite this, he grudgingly had to acknowledge that Blackheart was presenting him with a challenge. He suspected, without any proof of the feeling, that the whole thing was little more than a game to the traitor.
But that game was now reaching its climax. They had been circling one another for long enough, each sizing up the other’s strengths and weaknesses and the time was rapidly approaching for them to make their final play and close on the enemy.
Were he to employ clinical objectivity, Arrun would have acknowledged that Blackheart had been baiting him into this confrontation all along.
He was being propelled forwards by the tides of fate that so dictated his Chapter’s every action. The pride and honour that was instilled in him, knowing that he carried his Chapter into this action, was great. Victory and vengeance were close at hand. He would hunt the Tyrant of Badab and run him to ground like the wild beast that he was. Then he and his brothers would erase the legacy of the Red Corsairs and purge the stain of their existence from Imperial memory. Blackheart was nothing more than a serpent and Arrun intended to snap its neck beneath his boot, just as he would have done with the snakes back home on Varsavia.
The words of Vashiro, the Chapter’s Head Prognosticator, came into his mind. When every battle-brother of the Silver Skulls ascended into the full ranks of the Chapter, they were granted a personal audience in his presence. For each battle-brother, a private seer’s blessing was given. No brother ever spoke of those deeply personal words or portents in front of any other. Their future was spelled out in that meeting and it was understood that it was improper to speak of such things openly. Of course, that future was often presented as a riddle or an old parable of some kind and rarely made sense.
Arrun hadn’t thought of those words for a long time. Strange then, that they should come back to him now. Stranger still that words that had once seemed ethereal and wise could now suddenly be so very appropriate.
There is no sound as eloquent as the vashka snake’s tail when it sounds before a strike.
Blackheart’s words hadn’t moved him at all, except to anger. There had been no eloquence in his attack. It had been pure brutality right from the start. The traitor’s hatred for the Imperium would never colour Arrun’s loyalty.
‘We have a new problem.’
Daviks looked up at Correlan. The Techmarine had spent the past few minutes with the glazed look of one at the heart of the system. The mechadendrites that snaked out from the harness on his back were plugged into the refinery’s cogitators and he had been running diagnostic tests and security sweeps.
The Gildar Rift Page 32
